


Jon Sand, Bastard of Winterfell

by SnowBarksAtMidnight



Series: Song of the Last Hero [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur is the Best Uncle, Dragons? Dragons., F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Ghost is the Best Boy, In This House We Love and Respect Arthur Dayne, Jon Sand, Jon Targaryen - Freeform, M/M, Ned Tries, R Plus L Equals J, Sassy Arthur, The Kingsguard, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), The Prince That Was Promised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 03:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15525468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowBarksAtMidnight/pseuds/SnowBarksAtMidnight
Summary: The mysterious beginnings of Jon Snow, beloved son, nephew, and one-day king.  Ned Stark's adventures in keeping a treasonous secret from nearly everyone.  Arthur Dayne's adventures in raising a sassy little shit.  Jon Snow living and growing in Winterfell, under the watchful eyes his Lord Father and Uncle Art.





	1. Lyanna's Last Wish

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic ever and I've been working so, so hard on it! I'm really excited to share it with you all! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. If you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me in the comments. If not, feel free to comment anyways because I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> I am also posting this on Fanfiction.net. My username there is also SnowBarksAtMidnight.

_The Tower of Joy, Dorne, 283AC_

 

 

     Ser Arthur Dayne, Knight of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning, stands at the sole window in the princess’ quarters in the Tower of Joy.  Calling it the princess’ quarters is very generous, in Arthur’s opinion.  While the room may be spacious, it is sparsely decorated with a thin layer of sand and dust covering nearly everything.  The princess rests on a large bed in the middle of the room.  For Whylla, the midwife, there is a small cot in the corner.  A table stands near the opposite wall, weighed down by books and letters from the crown prince, all unopened save one.  Arthur had removed his white cloak long ago, a concession to both the heat and his own conscience.  It was draped over a worn wooden chair that was next to the larger bed.  Dawn was ever present at his side.

     Arthur looks out the window, first at the blue sky, rose streaks just beginning to form, then at his sworn brothers standing guard, white cloaks nearly blinding in the bright Dornish sun.  Days like this remind him of boyhood at the Water Gardens, playing in the waters with his sister Ashara, trailing after Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, trying to best Princess Elia Nymeros Martell at cyvasse.  He thinks of happier times, when he was quick to laugh and even quicker to joke, when Elia was stronger, physically and mentally, and Ashara’s eyes were always shining and dancing with happiness, not clouded with fear from months in the Red Keep.  Of Elia, who he once believed to be impossibly strong, even after years of childhood illness.  Of Oberyn, though not much every really changes with Oberyn, whose moods have ever been mercurial.  Of Ashara, his dear sister, his only sibling to accompany him to the cesspool that is King’s Landing.

     Lyanna Targaryen, second wife to Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, inhales sharply, bringing Arthur out of the past.  He looks towards the bed, eyebrow raised in question.

     “What’s happening out there?”

     “A fair bit less than what’s happening in here, Your Grace,” Arthur answers with a charming grin.  “Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold languish in the sun and a star appears to be falling from the sky.”

     “A sight you Daynes must see often enough!”

     “Oh aye, the heat is often too much for you sensitive northerners,” Arthur laughs.

     “And all that is less than childbirth, Ser Arthur?”  Lyanna jokes, “Such silly fears men have.”

     “Aye,” Arthur agrees with mocking sagacity, turning to the window once more.  Lyanna’s barking laugh is cut short by another groaning whimper.

     “My son picked a fine time to announce himself,” she says, one hand pushing her Stark brown hair out of her face while the other smooths slowly over her stomach.

     “A daughter born under a falling star in lucky indeed,” Arthur counters, eyes drawn toward the horizon.

     “A son born under a falling star must indeed be fortunate.  A sign of a great warrior, perhaps.” Lyanna remarks drily, glaring lightly at Arthur’s turned back.

     “Rhaegar believes your child to be a princess of the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Arthur says, ignoring her glare.  Movement in the distance draws his eyes and his shoulders tense slightly.  He tries to sound nonchalant as he says, “Riders are approaching.  Seven of them.”

     “Rhaegar knows nothing; it is a boy.  More wolf than dragon, I hope.  If Rhaegar wants a princess, he can birth her himself.  The riders, can you see their sigils?”  Her breathing a quickened again and she sits up in the bed, eyes shining brightly.  “Cregan is a good name, don’t you think?  Or Brandon.”

     “Dyanna, perhaps, or Alysanne.  Or Visenya, as the prince suggested.” Arthur answered.  “I only recognize the one sigil, Your Grace, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you which one it is.”

     “All Targaryen brides, are you trying to tell me something Arthur?”  Lyanna mocks.  “If a man cannot even deign to be present for his child’s birth, then he has no say in the name.  Any wedded man knows as much, Arthur, so I shall not fault you for your ignorance.”

     “Surely a man who thinks he can keep his distressed wife locked in a tower knows at least one thing,” Arthur shoots a grin over his shoulder at Lyanna.  “That he won’t be wed for much longer.  Twin axes under a crown on a yellow background, a black horse on an orange background, a lizard-lion on a green back.”

     “I can leave this tower any time I wish, Arthur Dayne!  With Thorne in my hand, nothing can stop me!”  Lyanna steadies her breathing.  “Dustin, Ryswell, and Reed.  And the others?”

     “With Thorne in your hand and Arthur Dayne by your side, you mean.  A gauntlet on a red backing, wolves on a gray backing with black trim, and three buckets on blue with a checked trim.”  Arthur turns to look at Lyanna.  “And a gray wolf on white leading them all.”

     “Glover, Cassel, and Wull with Ned, then.  It’s time.”  A short scream of pain escapes her and Arthur abandons the window to sit by her bed.

     “What would you have me do, She-wolf?”  Arthur asks as he approaches.  “How can I help?”

     Whylla responds, “You can leave this to the one who actually knows what she’s doing, Ser.  There’s no use for swords here anymore.”

     “Playing with swords is what got her into this in the first place, Whylla!”  Arthur laughs wryly.

     Lyanna steals his hand and clutches it tightly.  Red-faced from exertion, she glares at the Sword of the Morning.  “Oh, aye, and what a great help the Sword of the Morning has been so far!  Whylla is the only one of real help right now, you useless knight.”

     Arthur smiles at her, the kind of smile one gives to a child throwing a tantrum, while Whylla hands Lyanna a cup of water and fluffs her pillow.

     “Men are only ever useful for one thing, Your Grace,” Whylla remarks slyly, her head bowed to hide her mischievous grin, “Swordplay.  As I’m sure Ser Arthur knows better than most.”

     “I’ll have you I’m excellent at swordplay!”

      “Enough about swords, please!  I’ve a job to do, and so do you Arthur!”  she grits her teeth. “You promised!  Now go!”

      “With all due respect, Your Grace,” Arthur begins, his teasing expression replaced with concern, “I don’t think-”

      “No, you don’t!  It’s time, right now, it’s time!”  Lyanna screams again in pain, hearing the shouting from outside and the clashing of steel.  “Remember the plan, Arthur, please.  Else I will wield Thorne and do it myself!”

       Arthur grins and tries to joke, “Your Grace, it would be a bit difficult for you to wield a sword in your condition.”  It falls flat, but he squeezes Lyanna’s hand reassuringly.  “Are you sure you still want to do this, She-wolf?” 

     “Ser Arthur Dayne,” Lyanna says in the voice of a perfect southron lady while crushing his hand, causing him to flinch, “Your princess kindly asks you to shut the fuck up and do as she says.  Now.”

     Arthur huffs a small laugh and pries his hand from hers as the midwife, Whylla, places a cool cloth on Lyanna’s forehead.  With a flourish that earns him a strained smile from Lyanna, Arthur dons his white cloak once more; Whylla whispers softly to the princess, trying to soothe her pain.  The heavy wooden door shuts behind him and Arthur leans against it for a moment, preparing himself for what is to come.  He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of his sister Ashara and of the Princess Elia, and of the gods he swore himself to so long ago.  He steadies himself, quiets his mind, turns away from the disappointed ghosts of his fellow Kingsguard, pushes off the door and descends the stairs of the Tower of Joy.  The sounds of fighting grow louder and the sky begins to bleed.  The comet streaks ever closer across the sky.

     When he reaches the bottom of the steps, only Ser Oswell Whent and Eddard Stark still stand, swords clashing.  Stark sees Arthur, and retreats slightly, sword still at the ready.  Arthur fingers his white cloak as he approaches the two and unsheathes Dawn slowly.  He stops next to Oswell, head bowed, and tightens his grip on the shining sword.  It is time.

     “Arthur!  You’re here to help me kill the Usurper’s Dog, then?” Oswell grins, “It took seven of them to kill Gerold, but they’ll need an army if they hope to best us!”

     Oswell glances in Arthur’s direction briefly, but not long enough to see Dawn arcing towards him.  As the pain tears through him, Oswell drops his sword and staggers, wide eyes staring at Arthur.  Arthur grips Oswell’s arm as he falls, and stares into his eyes as he slips a dagger into his chest.  A quick death is all he can offer now.

     “Forgive me, brother,” Arthur whispers over Ser Oswell Whent’s corpse.  He closes Oswell’s eyes and stands.  He turns, Dawn hanging limply in his hand now, to the shocked face of the princess’ brother.  “Her Grace requests your presence, Lord Stark.”  Arthur sheathes Dawn and removes his white cloak, once a source of pride, and drops it on the ground.  There is no need for it anymore.  He glances once more at Stark, eyes lingering the hands tightening around the sword, before returning to the tower.  The princess has need of him still, no matter how much she would deny it.  The dead have no need of him anymore.

     Eddard Stark hesitates, sword wavering in the air, as Arthur Dayne walks away from the bodies of his sworn brothers.  His eyes stray to Howland Reed’s.  Is it a trick?  Is a Kingsguard still a Kingsguard if he slays his own brothers?  Eddard dithers, caught between lowering his sword or driving it into Dayne’s back.  Howland readies a small dagger, nodding at his liege-lord.  Eddard inches forward, a ghost of a thought towards killing his sister’s captor, when Lyanna wails from within the tower.  Dayne startles takes the stairs quickly, panic evident in his stride.  Eddard drops his sword in surprise and runs, following closely behind, stumbling briefly over the body of Ser Gerold Hightower.

 


	2. Don't Ever Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A baby, a wet-nurse, an argument. Ned thinks he knows best; Arthur begs to differ.

_Dead Man’s Drink, King’s Landing, The Crownlands_

 

 

            “That’s enough, Dayne!”  Eddard runs his fingers through his hair, his frustration with the Dayne’s repetitive subject of discussion evident.  “I’m not a boy, I don’t need coaching.  Certainly not from you and certainly not in this.  Robert is my friend, my brother, and I’ve known him nearly half of my life!  I know what needs to be done.  I know what I need to say.”  He reaches for the baby sleeping soundly in Arthur’s arms.

            “Your friend is a violent whoremonger who condones the murder of innocent children and even rewards said murderers, so forgive me if I refuse to put Jon in harm’s way.”  Arthur moves out of reach, clutching a snoring Jon close.  “I swore by the old gods and the new that I would die before letting anything harm my nephew.  It is the one vow that I will never break.”

            “Nothing will happen to the boy,” Eddard fumes quietly.  “I’ve lost too much already, I won’t lose anything else to this damned place, not my life, not my brother, not my nephew-”

            “Your son, Stark!”  Arthur turns his head sharply, eyes cutting into a wincing Eddard.  The babe stirs in his arms and he bounces Jon lightly, trying to rock him back to sleep.  “Your son, my nephew, sweet Ashara’s boy!  If you can’t even keep it straight here, between us, then we’re all fucked.  Him, me, you, your fishwife, and her spawn.  All of us!  So keep your fucking facts straight!”  Despite trying to control himself, his words still grow louder than he meant them to.

            As if sensing his uncle’s distress, little Jon awakens.  Slowly, as if every movement is deliberate, he stretches and shakes his tiny fists and his mouth opens in a silent yawn.  His hands then grip Arthur’s shirt tightly and his eyes blink open blearily.  Arthur nods his head at Whylla, standing silently in the makeshift nursery, eyes never straying from Jon’s face.

            “Take him,” Arthur says.  Eddard moves forward, hands once more reaching for the boy.  “Whylla.”

            Tenderly, she removes the boy from Arthur’s arms.  “I think a feed and a nap are in order, little lord.” She pauses in front of Arthur for a moment, bouncing the babe in her arms. Their eyes connect, his a calculating purple and hers a deep, loyal brown. In this moment, Arthur knows that Whylla will do everything in her meager power to protect the child, should Stark betray them. A breath, then Arthur nods.

            She leaves for the adjoining room, cooing at Jon all the while; before she closes the door, she meets Arthur's solemn eyes one last time.  As the door shuts, Arthur moves.  Between one blink and the next, he’s grabbing the front of Eddard’s shirt and walking the shorter man backwards.  Eddard’s back hits the wall with a light thump; a nervous glint has appeared in his eyes and his mouth has gone dry, but he makes no move to break free.  Arthur leans close, eyes hard and lips curled in a snarl.

            “My nephew will not be endangered by the likes of you, Stark.”  Arthur growls, his voice deepening.  “Your son, he is your son.  Say it now, to me, or I swear I will take him to his other family and the next time you see him will be when he comes, a man grown, to kill you, to rain the seven hells upon you and that disgusting fuck you call brother.  And he will kill you, for the family you slew, for the mother you couldn’t save, in fire and blood.  I will ensure it, I promise you.  Now, who is he?”  His fist tightens, knuckles impossibly white from the strain.

            Quietly, so quietly that Arthur can barely hear him, Eddard replies.  Arthur holds the stare longer than necessary.

            “Good.” Arthur releases the shirt with a quick jerk and steps back, dismissing Eddard with a wave of his hand.  “What is it your northerners say?  The north remembers?  Best if you don’t ever forget, Stark.”


	3. He is My Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned makes his choice.

_ The Red Keep, King’s Landing, The Crownlands _

 

Outside of the throne room in the Red Keep, Eddard Stark waits with his hands clasped in front of his body.  The clenching of one hand is the only sign of his discomfort. He would much rather meet Robert in his study, or a tavern, or anywhere other than this gods damned throne room.  Anywhere else, so long as he never has to see that scorch-marked floor or the steps where Tywin Lannister’s pets had thrown the corpses of the little prince and princess ever again.

He may love the new king like a brother, but even Ned can admit that courtesy is not his strong suit.  Or even kindness. Understanding, perhaps, was out as well. Ned muses, maybe while he sang Robert’s praises, Lyanna saw the truth of him and fled.  The realm saw the truth of him and plotted.

Arthur saw the truth of him and sneered.  He saw the truth of Ned himself, too, and raged.  He saw the truth of Lyanna, he must have to break a solemn oath to the gods.  To kill someone he has lived and ate and fought with for so many years. To devote himself to a dead woman’s son.  To condemn himself to a life away from his true family, to surely be hated by those he once called friend, to be forever grouped with Lannister’s oathbreaker of a son.  To spend the rest of his days living a lie.

        Arthur, Ned realizes, must have come to love Lyanna fiercely in their time together.  Fiercely and deeply, to agree to raise another man’s son, betray his oath to the gods and his own sworn brothers, and shame himself in front of the entire realm.  And to call the boy Ashara’s.

        Would Robert have done the same for Lyanna?  If he knew of the babe’s true father, would his love for Lyanna stay his hand?  Or would he turn his back and allow Tywin Lannister’s rabid dogs to murder yet another child?  Would he laugh again at the sight of Lyanna’s babe with his head bashed in, if he knew that child to be half Targaryen?  But surely, Ned thinks, Robert loved Lyanna to go to war for her and even now he loves her still. Arthur’s voice drifts from the dark of his mind.  

        Arthur whispers, voice uncomfortably soft in Ned’s mind, “Is his love for a dead woman enough to overcome his bloodlust for ‘Dragonspawn’?”  The words curl and drift through his thoughts, decimating all of Ned’s poorly considered plans.

        Can Ned truly risk Jon’s life on Robert’s devotion?  Robert who, though Ned love’s the man like his own blood, already has three bastards that Ned knows of.  Bastards that Robert hasn’t bothered to meet.

        Perhaps if Robert just saw the boy first.  Jon’s resemblance to Lyanna is remarkable. He has her hair, a brown so deep it almost appears black.  And Flint curls from Ned’s own grandmother Arya. But Ned knows that even if he could guarantee Robert’s reaction, Arthur would sooner kill them both than let him bring Robert anywhere near Jon.

        Perhaps Arthur’s rage is not for Ned, not truly, but for his own loss.  And for the same fear that Ned himself feels, for Jon’s life. For Jon, Arthur will ruin himself in the eyes of the realm and the gods.  For a boy that isn’t even his blood, Arthur would risk his life. What must he think of me, Ned thinks, that he would die for Jon and yet I waver?  That question shocks him. Why is he debating over this decision, when he knows that Arthur is guaranteed to protect Jon? Is he really willing to risk his only nephew on the possibility of Robert’s love?  Arthur will defy all the gods to protect Jon. In this moment, Ned knows he must do the same. 

        Resolved, Ned thinks, for Jon.  He would even lie to the gods themselves, if he must.

“He is my son,” Ned whispers to himself, voice wavering at the lie.  Behind him, the great doors leading to the throne room open and he is announced.  He readies himself for the show, not to protect his reckless sister, but for the dark haired boy at the inn, too young know that he should be afraid.  He repeats, still at whisper, but voice certain. “He is my son, Jon Snow.”


	4. Ready to Head North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow is born. Drinks are had. Arthur loses his cool. Ned tiptoes around.

_Dead Man’s Drink, King’s Landing, the Crownlands_

 

 

            The longer that Stark is gone, the more agitated Arthur becomes.  He thinks of Lyanna and Ashara, both willful, beautiful, and dead before their time, and paces.  He thinks of Elia and her babes, and he drinks.  He thinks of Oberyn’s coming rage, sure to be a storm not even the gods could weather, and he winces at a phantom pain.

            He eyes the door leading to the makeshift nursery, contemplates entering.  But Whylla, half his size and thrice as fierce, would rage at him, in that quiet way that reminds him of his own mother, to leave the babe alone.  She grieves for Lyanna as well, he knows.  Knows she wishes to lavish all of Lyanna’s love on the boy for her.  The boy is her last connection to the She-wolf, too, and every man and woman from Dorne knows that Sands stick together.  He reaches for the wine again, more for its comforting smell than to actually drink it; his sister favored it, once.  For a time, it was the only northern wine she could stomach. It is likely to be his last true connection to Ashara for many years and he wishes to savor it for as long as he can.  Arthur sits quietly at the table now, back against the wall with both doors in his sight.  Unbidden, Rhaegar comes to his mind.

            Before he even realizes what’s happening, Arthur hurls the cup of wine.  It smashes against the wall next to the door just as it opens and Stark’s face appears.  The man in question ducks in a panic, sword swinging wildly as he tries to rush through the half opened door.

            What a sight he makes, Arthur thinks as he laughs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.  Stark eyes the room, hears Arthur’s uncontrolled laughing, and sheathes his sword with a huff.  He eyes Arthur for a moment before shutting the door and sitting at the table.

            “You’re in a better mood, then,” Stark says carefully, mindful of the stories of Dornish tempers.

            “Aye, and you’re here, alive and well,” Arthur replies, “Which mean that the Usurper accepted your words.  And what the king believes, the realm believes with him.”  He looks at Stark as he wipes the tears from his eyes.

            “Well, I haven’t been ordered to kill you or turn you over, so there’s that.”  Stark jokes as he grabs the wine bottle, sniffs it and recoils slightly.  “Not northern, is this?”

            Arthur grins lightly.  His sense of humor is almost as bad as the She-wolf’s.  “It’s certainly not a fine Dornish wine.  But it is northern.  Perhaps not northern enough for you, though.”

            Stark pours a glass of wine for himself, eyeing Arthur, not quite sure if the Sword of the Morning was making a joke or not.  Deciding to ignore it altogether, he changes the subject.  “Is everything ready for us to depart tomorrow?”

            “Of course.  As a wise man once said to me, you must always be prepared to make a quick escape.”  Arthur stands, stretching lightly.  “Jon Sand is ready to head north.”

            After taking a large gulp of wine, Stark looks down at the cup in his hands as he says, “About that.  I don’t know who this Jon Sand is, but tomorrow Jon Snow begins his journey home.”

            As Arthur walks towards the nursery and steps through the door, he briefly looks at Stark over his shoulder.  “That name,” he drawls as he’s closing the door, “is fucking dumb.”


	5. For Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Winterfell. Arthur is more perceptive than Ned ever imagined. Catelyn is angry. Ned has to live with the consequences of his choice. Arthur doesn't like Catelyn. The old gods agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks so much for your support! This is the last chapter of part one, but don't worry, there is definitely more to come! I'll probably take a week break between part one and two, then resume my weekly updates. Thank you all again for reading and commenting!

_The Lord’s Solar, Winterfell, The North_

 

 

            After days of long silences and strained, too formal conversations with his wife, Ned was at his wits end.  How had Brandon so easily navigated the southron waters of Catelyn Tully’s mind?  Upon returning to his childhood home as Lord Paramount of the North, she had proudly presented his heir, Robb Stark.  Named for his oldest friend, she said, smiling brightly.  Until she saw Dayne and the babe in his arms.  News of the former Kingsguard’s dishonor arrived before them. Her smile strained, then, and she clutched the red-haired babe close to her chest.  Since then, her words and demeanor an icy polite that would have made his mother proud.

            Now, finally, she had agreed to speak with him about the child who she was diligently ignoring.  Ned is sitting behind his father’s desk, his desk now, trying too hard not to fidget in the seat that is Brandon’s by right.  Was Brandon’s.  By the amused look on Dayne’s face, his discomfort is not as well hidden as he had hoped.

            “Well Stark,” Dayne begins, “What, exactly, are you going to tell your fishwife?”

            Ned gives him a sharp look, “Don’t call her that, Dayne.  She’s the Lady Stark, give her the respect she deserves.”

            Dayne rolls his eyes and sits down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, legs stretching out in front of him.  “She’s a fish and your wife.  And I’m not in the habit of respecting those that don’t deserve it.  Especially judgmental northerners.  It’s a lesson every Dornishman knows well.”

            Dayne may looked relaxed, stretched out like a cat in the sun, but Ned knows better than to lower his guard.  Dornishmen are famous for their hot tempers, after all, and Ned has been burned by Dayne’s temper before.  He eyes the other man silently.

            “I thought to tell her the truth,” he finally says softly, waiting for the inevitable fight.  Immediately Dayne shifts, straightening in his seat, eyes hardening.  There it is, Ned thinks.  Why is Dayne’s mind so easy to predict, but Catelyn’s is not?

            “No,” Dayne barks sharply.  “We agreed, in King’s Landing.  We agreed at the tower, too.  I’ll not let you endanger that boy just because your fishwife refuses your bed.”

            Ned startles.  How does he know what is happening in Ned’s own home?  He, red faced in a way that can only mean embarrassment, sputters, “That’s not-”

            “Don’t lie to me, Stark.  You’re not nearly capable of that.  You might feel guilty lying to her, but that’s really why you want to tell her about Jon.  Too busy thinking with your sword and not your head.  You might be able to lie to everyone else in this frozen hell, but you can’t lie to me.”

            “What am I to tell her, then?”  Ned rages, a kind of restrained rage that suits the Quiet Wolf well.  He usually wears discomfort well, but Dayne has a way of getting under his skin.  Ashara was the same, he remembers suddenly.  Something the two have in common, then.

            “I’m sure she’s at least bright enough to figure out what we agreed just on my presence here alone.” Dayne condescends.  “You needn’t tell her anything.  A disgraced Kingsguard and a babe, both of which you picked up in Dorne.  It worked in King’s Landing because it is already believable.  The lie tells itself.”

            Ned mulled over Dayne’s words.  He was right.  Catelyn need not know the truth.  Jon had the Stark look for the most part and the eyes, a lavender so pale it looks gray in certain lights, would be explained by Dayne’s presence.  Dayne himself has his house’s typical purple eyes.  And his doting on the child which rivaled Ned’s.  The light raps on the door break the silence and mark his wife’s arrival.

            “What should I tell her?”

            Arthur stands and walks towards the door, “What we agreed on.  What you promised Lyanna.  And remember, she may have been your brother’s betrothed, but she’s your fishwife now.  In my experience, sometimes all a woman wants is a sign of respect.”

            He opens the door, revealing Catelyn.  “Lady Stark,” he says as he bows deeply, to deeply to not be an insult, and leaves with a flourish and a smirk.  She scowls at him as deeply as her proper southron manners will allow and shuts the door with a thud.

            “My Lord Husband,” she says mildly, face placid, as she sits.  “You wished to see me?”

            Ned runs a hand down his face, “Yes, I did.”

            Her lips purse, “It’s about the boy.  The one Ser Arthur brought here with him.”

            “About Jon, yes, to some extent.” He replies cautiously.  “And Dayne, as well.”

            He watches as her back stiffens and her face blanks.  He continues, “The king has granted Dayne clemency in exchange for never leaving the North without my permission.  Dayne agreed to the king’s terms and I’ve agreed to house and watch him.”

            “He brought a bastard with him.  A Sand.”  Catelyn says lightly, as if her assumptions were correct, “Surely the boy belongs in Dorne with whatever woman tempted Ser Arthur from his vows.”

            Ned pauses.  She has fooled herself, he thinks, and now I must dash her hopes.  “In truth, My Lady, the boy is a Snow, not a Sand.”

            “Brandon’s then, with that Dornish woman.  The one from Harrenhal.”  Her voice has a slight quiver, her only concession to the pain borne from Brandon’s shadow.

            “The Lady Ashara.”  Ned stiffens in preparation for what he is about to say and his eyes narrow.  “He isn’t Brandon’s.”

            She eyes him then.  “Whose son is he?”

            Ned pauses and catches her eye.  He knows that he must tell her, but it will hurt.  It will hurt the fragile peace they had brokered all those months ago in Riverrun.  No doubt it would hurt Jon’s relationship with his aunt as well, and Jon will suffer for it.  Somehow, he knows, Dayne will make that all Ned’s fault.  And it will hurt Catelyn herself, perhaps more than anyone else.   

            “My Lord, who’s son is he?” Catelyn asks, louder now, her voice more insistent.  Still, Ned is lost in his own thoughts.  Why did the lie come so easily in front of Robert?

            The silence stretches on, and the room becomes more and more tense.  Maybe if he waits long enough, she will figure it out on her own and he won’t need to say the words.  Maybe Dayne was right.  Maybe his reasoning is skewed.  Why, Ned asks himself, did he agree to this absurd plan in the first place?  The answer comes to mind immediately.  For Lyanna.  So he steels his nerves.  For Lyanna.

            “Jon Snow is my son.”  He finally voices the lie and waits for her reaction.

            Catelyn wilts for a moment, before surging up in anger.  “Is that all, My Lord?” she bites, icy demeanor once more in place.  Surely, given how quickly she assumed the child to be Brandon’s, she had prepared for such things?  But Ned is not Brandon, he knows, and has never truly been like him.  There’s no way Catelyn could have been given any indication that Brandon’s vices were also Ned’s, even if such a similarity is purely fiction.

            “No!” Ned rises slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.  “He is my bastard, aye, but you are my wife.  Robb is my heir.  I only wished to ask how to earn your understanding, My Lady.”

            “Send the boy away.  Bastards are evil things, and a Dornish bastard can only become jealous and wanton.  He will only bring trouble.”  She responds quickly, eyes defiant.

            Ned closes his eyes in pain, “I cannot.  He is my son.  He will be raised with Robb and any other children the gods see fit to grant us, My Lady.”

            “He will be a blight on House Stark!  The seven curse all bastards!”  She raises her voice, a product of her composure slipping.  “Like all bastards before him, he will rise up!  He will try to usurp his brother, all bastards do!”

            He glares at her then, a look that makes her flinch.  His voice is hard and low as he says, “Your southron gods may curse the child, but this is the North!  No child of Stark blood, bastard or trueborn, will be a curse!  Jon is my son and he will be raised here!  I’ll not turn him away, no matter what some southron gods say.”

            “Then that is all, My Lord.  Good day.”  Catelyn leaves in a flurry and Ned sinks back into his chair.

            He was too harsh with his words, he knows.  And he should not have attacked her gods, no matter how strange and cruel their edicts might be.  He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself.  How do I earn her forgiveness?  Maybe Dayne is right in this as well.  Ned thinks, hunched over his father’s desk, his forefathers’ desk, and now his.  A southron bride must follow southron gods, he decides.  “A sept,” he says to himself, “I shall build her a sept here.”

            Outside, a heavy wind picks up, a fierce howling that shakes the windows of the solar.  Ned jumps.  Such gales are unusual in spring, but not wholly unheard of.  In the Godswood, the branches of the sacred trees shake violently, limbs cracking and red fingers twisting, and the Heart Tree begins to weep blood red tears.


End file.
